Stereopsis
by quietelysium
Summary: There are those who are born with open eyes. Then there are those who are born with a desire for such.


_Genres: _adventure, supernatural

_Rated: _T

_Characters: _South Italy/Romano, North Italy, Prussia, Spain, France

_Pairings: _?

_Summary: _There are those who are born with open eyes. Then there are those who are born with a desire for such.

_Note: _I missed this fandom! It's nostalgic, writing fanfiction about Hetalia again. I've had this idea for a while now but never actually put it on paper. Please let me know what you think.

* * *

**Stereopsis**

* * *

The Devil's Island (1) prison was a shabby, red-bricked building, housing only the most dangerous or powerful of convicts. If one were led down the main hallway, he would reach a large, metal door. This door led to a small, dingy room, illuminated by a single, cracked light bulb that hung from the ceiling. Blue paint was peeling from the walls, and rats scurried around the floor in frenzy. A wooden table and a few chairs lay scattered about the dirt, along with a number of chains, ropes, and makeshift devices that served to inflict pain. Two steel cells stood in the shadows. The great metal door faced the cells, but it was locked.

Rarely were criminals brought to this room.

* * *

19-year-old Romano Vargas was in a foul mood. He was sweating, the angry sun beating down on his tanned neck, he was in the most conspicuous location possible, and he had an idiot for a brother. It was because of the idiot, who decided that he wanted to cook tonight, that they were now at the city market buying ingredients for God-knows-what.

"Feli! Hurry the fuck up! Madame is probably worried sick by now!" he whispered fiercely from behind a tent that was selling legumes, crossing his arms in impatience. They had been hiding contentedly from the police in Madame's manor, concealed deep in the woods. If only he had been able to stop his stupid brother from leaving the place, they wouldn't have ended up in this precarious situation.

Feliciano Vargas, his twin, turned to smile cheerfully at him with shining eyes. They looked almost identical—both were slim and had auburn hair, fair skin, and brown eyes, though Romano was darker in complexion. "Just a minute, brother. Ah, look at these apples! Don't they seem so delicious?" He gestured to the shiny red fruit on display at another stall. "I could bake apple pie with these!"

However, in the mental department, they could not be any more different. Feliciano had the brain of a five-year-old, Romano thought, irritated and sullen. He sighed. That was why he needed to follow his brother everywhere to stop him from making foolish decisions, even if it meant putting his life on the line.

* * *

It had been two hours of wandering around the noisy market—Feliciano getting distracted by this and that, Romano following him angrily—when suddenly there was _bang_, the sound of a gun being fired. All hell broke loose. Yelling and praying, vendors and customers ran in different directions, some grabbing what food they could. "Feli!" Romano shouted, as his terrified brother dashed towards him and grabbed his hand. "Come this way!"

Through all the commotion, the pair ran, ducking under collapsed tents and moving from aisle to aisle, until a band of burly men, concealed in ski masks and black clothing, appeared before the panicked brothers. The leader was wielding a pistol, and aimed it at the two. "If you don't wanna get hurt, you'll come with us, Vargas." The smirk was evident in his thickly accented words.

Panting, Romano stared back at the men, his hand still clutching Feliciano's tightly. If only, if only, if only... He could feel his brother quivering with terror. His paper bag of apples had fallen onto the dirt, forgotten.

Slowly, he raised his arms, prompting a whimpering Feliciano to do the same. The men quickly approached them and proceeded to tie their wrists together, blindfold them with handkerchiefs reeking of sweat, and tape their mouths closed.

Stumbling forward blindly, they followed their abductors for a few minutes until they reached the sound of powerful buzzing—a helicopter. Feliciano seemed to have figure out this as well, and he began to wail, the duct tape muffling the sounds of his sobbing. Romano was just as afraid, but he did not dare let his distress show. _Cazzo!_ He knew this would occur, and it was his entire fault for letting them get caught.

They were uncomfortably forced into the vehicle, another man telling Feliciano to "shut the fuck up, bitch." Anger swelled within Romano for hearing his brother being treated with such scorn, but he was powerless and at the mercy of their captors. The aircraft began to rise. His brother's pitiful cries only reinforced how helpless their situation was; no one could save them now. Without sight, his most valuable ability, he would not be able to find out much about their whereabouts. Wherever they were headed, Romano was sure that it was not going to be pleasant.

They descended eight hours later—Feliciano airsick, Romano furious. When their gags and blindfolds were removed (much to their relief, especially Romano's), a wide expanse of lush landscape lay stretched before their eyes. Glittering blue water surrounded them, and among leafy brush and banana plants, a ramshackle, red-bricked building sat. Feliciano may have even admired the wild flora if he was not so frightened.

The masked men grabbed their cuffed wrists and forced them forward through the grimy entrance of the edifice. "Move," they snarled at the two boys when they were met with feeble resistance.

Dirty cells lined both walls of the establishment, each containing a small cot, a desk, a washbasin, and a toilet. In each one, a detainee sat or stood, unrecognizable from time and torture. Some screamed, others whispered obscenities, and still others lay wounded or unconscious. Guards, all of them brawny and broad-shouldered and dressed in stiff blue uniforms, a few smoking cheap cigarettes, stared at the twin brothers warily as they stumbled past them. Some pointed and whispered to each other. Their attentive eyes seemed to follow Romano all the way down the hall, disturbing him.

"Brother," Feliciano whined timidly as his dark eyes met his (and Romano was surprised his brother wasn't speechless with fear by now), "do you smell something?"

His throat felt dry. He couldn't say anything that would make them more suspicious. "Everything smells like shit here," Romano finally spat. "And get your hands off of me, _stronzo_," he muttered to the stout man who held onto his delicate wrists with a firm, uncomfortable grip. "Or else you'll find your second child dead tonight."

If the kidnapper's face was not covered, he may have appeared shocked, perhaps even fearful. Nevertheless, the man slapped Romano's scowling face angrily and marched him onwards.

* * *

The sound of footsteps echoed through the building, followed by the cries and moans of the other prisoners.

At the end of the hall, in the darkness of the room, a pale, young man with shocking white hair and glowing red eyes crouched. Rats scampered over his scuffed boots. A miniscule, black eagle hung from his left ear and a tattoo of the same eagle embellished his right bicep. He grinned at the large metal door through the steel bars, revealing a chipped tooth.

Next to him, two other men, similar in age and build to the first, began to stir from the confines of their cell. "Looks like they brought us some company, boys," Gilbert Beilschmidt sneered, and his red eyes darkened.

* * *

_To be continued..._

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(1) **Devil's Island** is an island located off the coast of French Guiana in South America. The island was used as an exile of prisoners from 1852 to 1953.


End file.
